


Persephone's Call

by Vivian



Series: Morgengrauen [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Daddy Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, French Revolution, French Revolution!AU, Greek Myths, History in general, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, M/M, Majestic Thorin, Not Really Incest, Ovid, Power Play, Slow Burn, Vampires without sparkling, Violence, it's definitely a love story, lots of feelings, okay I lied, this is not a love story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 09:47:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1221691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1792. France is made anew. In the following turmoil Legolas finds something so ancient he cannot resist but pursue it. The path of destiny is laid out before him. It has a name: Thranduil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Persephone's Call

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【Translation】Persephone's Call](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2754158) by [suirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suirin/pseuds/suirin)



> So I had this class about French Revolution in uni and needed something to make it more attractive to learn...  
> I still regret nothing.

**1**

 

The sky is pure azure. Legolas stares into the blue, wind tearing at his long blonde hair. They're racing over a highway in a Mustang cabrio. Guns 'n Roses' _Nightrain_ is blasting out of the speakers. He pushes his sunglasses up his nose again. He sings along and laughs.

He is so unhappy.

 

 

**2**

 

220 years earlier. France.

 

It's January and the wind is blowing clod. Fog hangs over the _Place de la Révolution._ It has been snowing all night and morning, but nobody cares. The thousands of people who have gathered in the square have trampled the snow to mud. Soldiers and guardsmen try to keep them in place, barely sufficing.

The people's gaze is fixed on the scaffold. And the guillotine.

If it hadn't been for Saint-Just Legolas might not have seen much. But now he stands in the third row. They all hold their breath when Louis Capet mounts the scaffold. The former king has dark shadows underneath his eyes, pale skin, dry and torn lips. His voice is shaky when he professes his innocence: “I pardon my enemies. And I hope my blood will be useful to the French and that it will appease God's anger.” A drum-roll. His words swallowed by the rough sound.

Then the blade of the guillotine falls.

 

The crowd cries out, when Louis' head is lifted up high. The people scream for their republic and for liberty. They storm forwards, Legolas and the others in the first rows are crushed. People shouting and crying and laughing, trying to catch a drop of Louis' blood, with fingers, tongues, pens. Amidst them he stands, mute, trying to catch his breath. And feels nothing.

 

He is swept away by the people, he doesn't struggle. Just goes with the flow and an hour later he stands in a small side street. Today monarchy dies and he can not care less.

There is only one thing, one word in his head. One name. Thranduil.

It's silly, he thinks, how resistant to history-changing events humans can be when conflicted with their own desires. It's selfish and stupid, but that's what makes them human. And he's never felt more human than now. In these moments when everything inside him aches and screams and pleads. For a look, maybe a brush of his lips against his forehead.

He hasn't seen Thranduil since the trial of the king began, more than a month ago.

Still, he does not understand. How this happened, any of it.

 

**\---**

 

They met in a saloon, one Tuesday evening in April. Shortly before the guillotine is used the first time. It seems fitting to him now, he too feels like he has lost his head.

 

He is chatting to a friend when he notices Thranduil. He is tall, slender and elegant. He is dressed in a simple silver-grey coat, no pearls. First, he is looked at with suspicion but Legolas watches how with carefully placed words Thranduil gains respect and even awe. He cannot recall any details of his speech, but he could paint a thousand pictures of his glacier-cold eyes underneath dark, thick brows, the shimmer above his armor's-bow and the shadow contouring his jaw bones. Of his straight posture, his long champagne-coloured hair and the way he inclines his head just ever so slightly.

 

Who could blame him for being lost the moment he set his gaze upon him?

Thranduil is the reflection of his desires in a lying and generous mirror. An older version of Legolas, one he wants to become. Life the sculptor that chiselled Thranduil with violent but beautiful precision out of white marble. With maliciousness in the corner of his eyes and the quirk of his lips.

Somehow they start talking. Not about politics, but about travelling. Thranduil tells him of his latest journey: to Africa and of that mountain he climbed and how one could see the two oceans meeting, a thin white line across the seas. His heart races and his stomach turns.

 

The next week he is without appetite and sleepless. Until he goes to the saloon again, anticipation and dread drenching him from most of the blood in his face.

And when Legolas' mood has sunken into dark depths, Thranduil approaches. God, he nearly jumps off his chair to greet him. Thranduil's smile is razor-sharp and all teeth.

 

He invites Legolas home for another cup of wine. Of course he goes with him.

They talk until dawn, about foreign countries and poetry, they talk about the old Greek stories and Roman myths. Then Thranduil offers him his guest room for rest.

After that they meet every Tuesday at the saloon and every time Thranduil invites him over afterwards.

Because of their likeness people start to talk of them as father and son. Neither of them cares to correct them.

 

And while his country slowly comes apart, so does he.

The war the Gironde insist on, so confidently at first, wages on. Battles are lost, civil war is on the doorstep, then the royal family is seized by the government in August and the next day Danton is proclaimed minister of justice. Atrocities are the menu of the day. Everyone calls for violence and murder. The streets are packed with angry, anti-aristocratic people who call themselves Sansculottes.

He is lucky enough to have made a little fortune with being a lawyer and with what his parents left him, so the inflation doesn't bother him as much as most.

 

He spends his time either at home or at Thranduil's.

Maybe it's because of him that he feels so untouched by what is going on, by the war and rage of the people. Because when he is with him they dwell in the past. Not in the 18th century but in the days of Alexander the Great and Thranduil tells him how Alexander solved the Gordian Knot by simply cutting it through. Tells him of battles and wars, of Troy and Carthage, of Marc Anthony and Cleopatra and how foolish it was of them to keep the grain from Rome, how obviously outnumbered they were by Augustus. And he tells these stories as if he was part of them. As if he had been there.

 

He's always been one for politics, at least in a theoretical matter, but it seems like his interest has simply faded away. He tells Thranduil who then smiles at him briefly.

“I have beheld revolutions before. They are mostly tiresome occurrences. The Romans thought they had gained freedom when they stabbed Caesar. Those fools. Augustus was an even harsher tyrant. Why would anything change this time? Do believe me when I tell you, France is only bidding her time until the next tyrant. Nothing ever changes, history is like a wheel, it moves but in circles only.”

 

They sit at the dinner table, but now Thranduil stands up, takes his glass with him and they retreat to his private rooms. In all this time Legolas has never asked him how he became so wealthy, Thranduil doesn't seem to do anything else than read, take walks and go to the saloon. But does it matter? He closes the door behind him. Thranduil lights a few candles and then sinks down on the canapé in front of the cold fire place. He holds up his glass and toasts him. Legolas slowly follows, then hesitates. There is only that one canapé.

A light chuckle comes from Thranduil's lips, then he pats the place next to him. Legolas' heart skips a beat.

 

“You are a delicate one and therefore even more intriguing,” Thranduil whispers when he finally lies down next to him. Now, he can feel his breath against his cheek, the heat of his body against his own. And he cannot think of a single thing to say. So he doesn't. Just lies there and trembles. Thranduil's fingers brush over his arm, just ever so slightly.

“Do you wish to go home?”

“N-no,” he stutters and turns around. He nearly falls off the canapé, but somehow he manages. Now they face each other. Thranduil's cold blue eyes are heavily lidded, his lips arch into a predator-like smile. Legolas has never felt more vulnerable. He doesn't dare to breathe.

 

He's not sure what this is. Not sure what he wants this to be.

Thranduil leans in and Legolas closes his eyes, then lips brush over his forehead.

A gentle hand on his cheek.

“My dear boy, you fear me and rightfully so. I think you should prepare for the night.”

Thranduil's whispers are low and like velvet and he really does not want to go now. But he slowly gets up, anyway.

“Would … would you care to accompany me to the door?” Legolas asks, voice trembling.

“Of course.”

 

The guest room feels like a second bedroom to him, a part of home. He even has some books here. They stand in front of the door. Thranduil so tall and calm, so beautiful, it frightens him. He feels like a young, slender tree, shaken by a howling storm while Thranduil is the ancient statue, unmoved, surface smooth and hard and cold.

“How old are you?” Legolas asks suddenly. In the dim, flickering light he is not sure whether Thranduil smiles or whether it's just the shadows. He doesn't answer either way. Instead he pushes him against the door frame. Their lips are nearly touching. He can feel Thranduil's breath.

Without thinking he moves forward and kisses him. For a moment it's just a press of lips, then Thranduil's tongue slips into his mouth, tastes him. Thranduil steps back, separating them.

“Sleep well,” he says and leaves Legolas to himself and his furiously beating heart.

 

 

The next day, the world has changed. He does not blush, but whenever he looks at Thranduil now, he has to think of that fatal moment. It haunts him in every waking hour. Creeps into his dreams and nightmares. He does not know how to act when he is with him. Thranduil is as calm and indifferent as always. And that unnerves him even more.

 

In early September Saint-Just tells him about the massacres in the prisons, but he is barely listening. The fate of more than a thousand murdered, mostly innocent, human beings doesn't bother him. Is he ruthless? Yes, he is. Or maybe just confused.

He grabs Saint-Just's shoulders and looks into his eyes.

“You need to help me,” he murmurs.

They are sitting in his dining room, now Legolas stands up and starts pacing. Saint-Just looks even more pale than usual, his long black hair hanging loosely over one shoulder. He is young and beautiful and yet Legolas sees nothing of it.

 

“I think … I … I don't know. There is someone I admire,” he looks at Saint-Just, bites his lip. “Like … like you admire Robespierre.”

Now, he's got his attention.

“Who is it? Don't tell me you have fallen for Danton's silver tongue, don't you dare.”

“No, no. He's no politician.”

“Poet?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

“What then?”

“I don't know!”

 

Saint-Just stands up, too, lays a hand on his shoulder. Legolas blinks at him.

“I'm not sure what happens to me,” he confesses, “everything is being ripped apart here, France is made anew and I _—_ I don't even care.”

“How can you say that?”

Legolas looks at him, silent pleading in his eyes, but he cannot explain what he himself does not understand. He only shakes his head, averts his gaze.

“What happened to you?” Saint-Just asks.

“Love,” he says quietly, realising.

 

And yet he doesn't know what he means by that. Thranduil is like a father to him, a mentor and yet, and yet...

He feels helpless and so young. It has never been more clear to him how little he actually knows of the world, of anything, of Thranduil. It's like being thrown into a forest at night, mist hanging between the leaves and branches and he doesn't know where he is or which way he has to go. The only thing he can do is tumble, hoping to find the right way, or any for that matter.

 

 

**3**

 

He is not a child of this age, Thranduil tells him.

He strokes his cheek while he says it and shivers run down his spine.

“What am I then?” he asks.

“That is for you to decide,” Thranduil says.

 

It's a week after the execution of Louis Capet that they finally meet again. He wants to tell Thranduil how much he has missed their conversations, that he never wants to be apart for so long again. And because he is young and foolish he tells him. Afterwards he feels like he has revealed too much and too little at the same time. But he can take none of it back. Thranduil only tilts his head, his long hair following the motion, and says nothing.

Legolas smiles, because what else can he do.

 

 

At February 1st 1793 France declares war to England and the Netherlands. Legolas declares war to himself. It takes all his self control to decline Thranduil's next offer. But it's for the better, that he knows. Or that's what he tells himself. And maybe he could've stayed away longer than threeweeks, maybe could've become more his old self again _—_ but then comes the call to arms. He is tempted to go, he really is. But in the end, he doesn't want to die, so he asks for Thranduil's help.

“Of course,“ is all Thranduil says and pays for someone to go to war in his stead.

He stays at Thranduil's place that evening. And they talk as they used to. It feels like coming home.

 

They lie down on the canapé again and Thranduil only stands up to refill their glasses of wine. Slowly he can feel the heat and dizziness that comes with the alcohol, it's his third glass and Thranduil's fifth. He doesn't complain when Thranduil pulls him into his arms. His heart beats fast. Thranduil's hot breath hovering over his face, he can feel the warmth radiating off his body, smells his perfume, like spring in a wild forest. He moves down a bit and kisses Thranduil's neck, mouthing over the hard, smooth skin, licking along his collarbone. Strong fingers in his hair, guiding him upwards once more.

 

“I want your mouth upon mine,” Thranduil murmurs lowly, looks at him from beneath the curve of his black lashes. So Legolas kisses him. With vigour, holding nothing back. His tongue claims Thranduil's mouth until Thranduil pushes back, a fight he looses, but gladly. With a tilt of his head Thranduil breaks their kiss, licks over his lush lips. His fingers move over Legolas' back, not softly but with the need to claim.

“Get up,” Thranduil commands. Legolas obeys. He stays there, swaying slightly, for a moment darkness corners his view.

 

Then he is lead to Thranduil's bed, an antler on the headboard. An antler. While half Paris is starving. Legolas starts laughing and is only silenced as Thranduil pushes him roughly to the bed.

“On your hands and knees,” his voice is just a hiss. Shivers runs down Legolas' spine. He complies.

He is still fully clothed. That is until Thranduil moves onto the bed too and pulls his trousers down. He takes his time, undoes his shirt and waistcoat too. Then he is naked and can feel Thranduil's gaze stroke over his limbs. He's not sure if he's afraid or aroused.

Cold fingers on his back. Tracing down over the curve of his ass, then grabbing his thighs. He sucks in a ragged breath.

 

“So you have not done this before with a man.” Thranduil's breath is hot and moist on his thighs. He wants to say something but suddenly Thranduil takes his cock in his hand. A moan comes from his lips as he thrusts without thinking. Behind him he can hear Thranduil laugh quietly.

“You are like a leaf, small, not green yet, but growing on the gigantic tree that is life. What a pleasure to behold such youth and innocence.“

He wants to disagree, but Thranduil shushes him.

 

His strong body behind him, draped upon him. There, his tongue at Legolas' neck, his hand, smoothing his hair back to gain more access. Wet whispers against his skin. And slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, Thranduil moves lower. Kisses his shoulder blades, then licks along his spine just to come and rest over his lower back. His hands move up Legolas' thighs, then slowly part his cheeks. Hot breath. Legolas' eyes roll back under his skull as Thranduil first only kisses, then enters him with his tongue.

“Oh _mon dieu_ ,” he moans. His head sinks down into the pillow as Thranduil's tongue starts pushing in and out while one of his hands starts a slow rhythm on his erection.

 

He's not sure how long it takes and he doesn't know where he is when finally stars explode behind his eyelids. Curses he'll be ashamed of later spill over his lips as he spills into Thranduil's hand. Exhausted he falls down, rolls on his side and breaths heavily. Thranduil slides from the bed and stands up with the grace of a panther. He takes his glass of wine, sips and sits down next to Legolas. Before he can say a thing, Thranduil puts a finger over his lips, still wet with his come. Slowly Legolas' opens his lips and Thranduil pushes his finger inside. He bares his teeth as Legolas sucks.

Then he retreats and takes another sip of wine, refills the glass and hands it over to Legolas.

Gladly, he drinks, then falls back into the sheets. His heart beats faster when Thranduil looks at him, face smooth and calm. Should he leave?

 

But all Thranduil does is slowly stripping down to his underwear and then slipping under the covers as well.

“Would … can I …?” Legolas mumbles and Thranduil lays an arm around him. He snuggles in close and breaths him in. The world spins behind his closed eyes.

 

He awakes alone the next morning. The smell of coffee hangs in the air. And suddenly he remembers. Shame reddens his face while adrenaline rushes through his veins. Low curses come from his lips as he swiftly dresses. His hair is a mess, even as he tries to smooth it back.

“No need to rush,” Thranduil's voice comes from downstairs. “There are people in the streets, you might not want to go out now, boy.”

 

“Why? What's happening?”

“I believe they are storming the shops.”

Legolas descends the stairs and finds his way into the kitchen.

“Again?”

Thranduil turns around to him.

“Well what would you do if you were starving?” Thranduil replies sharply. Legolas' heart skips a beat. Meanwhile Thranduil hands him a mug with coffee. Then smiles and offers him sugar.

 

 

Suspicions run high these days. Especially after the defeat by the Austrians when general Dumouriez turns against them and tries to lead his troupes against Paris. His soldiers refuse, but that doesn't change the fear that now spreads itself in the minds of the people. The Gironde accuses Danton, before the Gironde itself becomes suspicious. Meanwhile Robespierre calls for the death penalty again. New mechanisms are set in motion. They create the Revolutionary Tribunal, and Thranduil tells him, now it becomes really dangerous, because the Tribunal can condemn convicts without appeal. Danton insists, “Let us be terrible so the people will not have to be”.

One day later start anti-revolutionary revolts in the Vendée.

 

Thranduil tells him to be careful. Both of them do not need to fight for coffee, sugar, soap or bread. People look down with pity but up with hatred. They must not be looked at like that and as little spoken of as possible.

 

The crack between the right-winged Gironde and the left-winged Jacobins opens up more and more. Then the Gironde tries to impeach the Jacobin journalist Marat, the friend of the people, the mouth who speaks for them, fights for them. A foolish move, Thranduil calls it. Indeed the Gironde's action backfires. The people rise up against them, Marat is set free and the Gironde looses the trust of the political middle.

 

But it goes even further than that. On May 31st  angry, armed Sansculottes invade the convention. They even have canons with them. The threat of violence has never been so clear. The Sansculottes demand the exclusion of the Gironde out of the convention and they leave no earlier than when 29 Girondists are put under arrest.

The Jacobins align themselves with the Sansculottes.

It sparks of rebellions, revolts in Marseilles, Lyon and other major cities that cry out against this injustice. Not to speak of the ever growing armies of the anti-revolutionary rebels in the Vendée.

 

And amidst all that turmoil Thranduil proclaims that he has to travel west to Nantes despite the explosive situation. On the question of why, he answers with: “I have business matters to attend to. Do come along if you please, I shall take care of your expenses.”

 

It's summer and the sunlight gleams golden in Thranduil's long hair.

Legolas cannot think of the enemy invasion France faces on three sides, nor the civil war that rages on around them when he but looks into his eyes. Cold like a frozen lake and he feels like the branch that fell into the water and now is trapped. And for a moment, that is all he wishes for. Being a branch frozen into the lake that is Thranduil. But Thranduil is also like spring, summer and fall. Sweet and burning and rotten.

 

 

He is wide awake. The whole day he had felt exhausted, but now that he lies in the freshly made bed, he can't sleep. The house is quiet, not even the tick-tock of a clock interrupts the silence.

They had arrived late that evening. A quick, warmed-up dinner and the landlady had shown him his room. He'd said good night to Thranduil and went to bed. The journey to Nantes in the dry and dusty summer heat had seemed so surreal, the carriage was comfortable enough, but he would've preferred to go on horseback, especially when they came to the more difficult terrain.

 

Thranduil had been first quiet, then started to tell him the story of Skylla and Minos. How easily tricked princess Skylla was to help the enemy general Minos claim her father's kingdom for the promise of love. How she was abandoned by all after the siege. And how the fish-man with wild green, long hair and beard fell in love with her. One more unfortunate event, since the fierce sorceress Circe was in was in love with him. Circe pursued Skylla in her heart-broken wrath, turned her legs into the bodies of wild dogs.

 

“That is how women hate,” Thranduil tells him, “When they are hurt because the man they desire, loves another, they do not seek to destroy the man, but the other woman.” He tells him, to remember it later, but all Legolas cares about is the tone of his voice and the created scenery. The images haunt him. When he closes his eyes, they flicker behind his lids. Then there is Thranduil's voice. Always. Sometimes he catches himself talking to him in his head. He's a fool, he knows that.

 

Suddenly light.

Just a pale, yellowish stripe that falls through under the door. He can't hear steps, but the light fades away. In a second he is up. As quietly as possible, he opens the door. It's but a glimpse of champagne-coloured hair he sees, disappearing behind the next corner. For a heartbeat he hesitates. Then he follows.

 

He's not sure what he had expected, but certainly not this. In the dim candle light a man is waiting in the saloon. He is short, but heavily build and muscular. Thick, black hair falls down his shoulders, there are braids in it, just like in his beard. His hair has already started to grey near the temples. His lips are pressed into a thin line underneath a strong, hawk-like nose and dark, piercing blue eyes. He is imposing, majestic even.

 

“How do you dare sending for me?” he rumbles. His voice sends shivers down Legolas' spine. Thranduil is with his back to him, but he can hear his smile when he talks.

“Do not be overly dramatic, Thorin.”

“Oh right. Pardon me, for intruding _your_ domain.”

Thranduil steps closer, circles him slowly and then leans down to him, his long hair following his movements.

 

“You must be aware of my obligation, son of Thrain.”

“Do not speak my father's name and don't try to lecture me. You are not here to save me, _my lord_. You have failed to keep true to your promises a long time ago.” Thorin's voice becomes quieter with every word he speaks. And angrier, too.

“Then why did you oblige?” There is mockery in Thranduil's tone.

“Why I came here on your call?” Thorin is deadly calm now.

 

The tension in the air is nearly touchable. Legolas holds his breath.

“You tare a fool if you think you can stand against Paris,” Thranduil whispers. They are close now. Suddenly Thorin steps forward. His hand at Thranduil's throat. He pushes the taller man against the wall. Legolas' eyes widen in shock. For a second he wants to intervene _—_ then Thranduil smiles. He has never looked more beautiful and terrible.

“But you always were a fool. Now take your hand off me or I will break both your arms.”

Legolas can see Thorin's fingers twitch, then he lets his hand fall to his side.

 

They are still close and something about it feels just wrong to him. Something about the wickedness in Thranduil's smile and the stare of Thorin's piercing blue eyes.

“I presume you know about the offer of the Jacobins? Amnesty to all who come back to their side.”

“I am no coward, Thranduil. I fight for those I love.”

“Enough with your sickening speeches! All you fight for is your pride and honour.”

“At least I possess these qualities,” he spits.

“Angering me is an unwise decision, Thorin.”

 

“Is it? Well, it seems you cannot deal with the true nature of things. You never could.”

With a swift motion, Thranduil changes their positions, he has Thorin against the wall. A blade against Thorin's neck, reflecting the candle light.

“Be calm now, child,” Thranduil murmurs.

Thorin smiles, it's a scary sight. No mirth is to be found in it, only resentment and hate.

“You've killed me sixty years ago already,” Thorin says and grabs the collar of Thranduil's shirt. He pulls him in and their lips meet in a violent kiss.

 

Legolas feels sick and excited.

When they pull apart, Thranduil's lips are reddened and puffy, a small drop of blood glides down from where Thorin must've bitten him.

“Accept the amnesty,” Thranduil says.

“You knew I never would,” Thorin replies and steps away from Thranduil. He turns around and Legolas retreats quickly. He quietly opens the door to the next room, just a small chamber, slips inside and waits until he hears steps and the front door fall shut. He waits a little longer before he dares to get out.

 

The corridor is dark again. He's not sure what he feels. He's not sure why it hurts.

He doesn't know what he wants.

The cushions are soft, the sheets comfortably cool. He can't recall walking to his room. His heart beats heavily in his chest. His stomach twists and turns at the thought of Thranduil and that strange man. Most of the words they have said make no sense to him. He feels like crying, but he cannot. He doesn't want to see Thranduil, but he doesn't want to be alone, either.

 

A knock on his door. For a moment he believes it's his subconsciousness playing him a trick. Then a second knock. He stands up and hesitantly opens the door.

Thranduil steps inside without further ado.

“It is not very polite to pry on people,” Thranduil says coolly. Legolas feels like chocking. Then anger rises in his chest. He wants to hurt him.

“Who is he?” he asks with a trembling voice.

“None of your concern. I do not wish to catch you prying a second time. Do you understand me?”

 

Thranduil steps closer now, towering above him. The gaze of his cold blue eyes is set set upon him.

“Don't worry,” Legolas presses, “as soon as we are back in Paris I will not bother you again.”

“You speak in anger, my boy.”

“I am not your boy,” Legolas hisses. Tears burn in his eyes and that makes him even angrier.

“Watch your tone, Legolas,” Thranduil says and steps closer, lays a hand on his cheek.

Legolas slaps it away.

“Don't touch me,” he says and moves backwards. Something flashes in Thranduil's eyes, something dark.

 

“Your jealousy flatters me, darling. But enough with it!” Before he can take another breath Thranduil has him trapped between the bedpost and his warm body.

“Hush now, Legolas.”

Reluctantly Legolas closes his eyes. Warm breath over his mouth, then the press of lips. He allows it, because he is weak and needs it.

 

God, he doesn't want to share Thranduil. He doesn't want Thranduil to be touched by another ever again. He grabs his collar very much like Thorin before and pulls him in close. Slowly he opens his lips and Thranduil's tongue slips inside. He greets it with his own, touching, pressing. There are Thranduil's hands in his hair, at his neck, collarbone, smoothing over his chest.

Then Thranduil sinks to his knees. Legolas' eyes flutter open, he holds his breath. Firm hands pull his shirt out of his trousers, folding it back. Hot, wet kisses on his skin, then he goes lower.

 

Thranduil leaves afterwards. Legolas lies in his bed, breathing heavily, wishing he would've stayed.

Eventually he falls asleep. He dreams of Skylla and of Thorin, wandering forlorn over a vast and endless beach of white sand, of Thranduil standing next to Circe, tall and eternal, a god who doesn't act, just watches the world pass him by.

 

 

The mood in the streets gets darker every day. They postpone their journey back to Paris.

But the revolts do not cease, they increase. War wages all around them.

In the darkest hours of night, he imagines death. A tall figure with a coat, moving like silk that does not shimmer, pure black. His features hidden, except for his chin and lips and he sees him smile as he walks through the streets with his scythe low above the ground. It is, of course, a euphemism for the misery that surrounds them. The spilled blood, the starvation, the civil war.

 

Legolas feels like in the eye of the storm. They are so sheltered, he can't stop himself from asking how long it's going to last.

 

He tries not to doubt Thranduil, not to judge him. But they are here because Thranduil had business with Thorin and now they can't get back. Thranduil is calm and impassive, eventhough he admonishes Legolas to be careful. Careful, Legolas thinks, is what you should've been. He doesn't say it, of course, he doesn't dare. But it's there in his thoughts and his anger drives him out into the streets. It's foolish, he knows it, but what is not that he does these days?

 

The prisons overflow with the captives of the Vendée. The leaves turn orange and yellow.

Legolas just starts to believe, they might get out before winter.

He is walking along the river Loire. Images haunting his thoughts, of Thranduil who stayed in the house, half naked in his bed. It was not yet noon, but Thranduil had had a glass of wine in hand and arched his back into that delicious curve when Legolas stepped into the room to inform him that he was going out. Heat glows in his cheeks at the thought. There is muffled talk behind him and approaching steps, but he pays it no attention.

 

He has half decided to go back when he is seized by two soldiers.

He protests, panic flooding over him like a feverish wave. Pleas come over his lips, but the one soldier just strikes him across the face. Stunned by the pain he shuts his mouth. He tastes blood.

“Citizen, do not deny you gave shelter to the rebel Oakenshield,” the taller soldier says.

Oakenshield? He knows no Oakenshield.

“You must be mistaken, I know of no—”

He is cut off by another strike. Darkness claws at his vision.

 

There is barely any place. The cells are filled to the brim. They have to sleep standing or sitting, there is not enough space. Sickness spreads as quickly as a forest fire. As does the madness.

Some claw and beat each other to death and the corpse just stays in the cell. The smell of rotten flesh, of shit and piss, vomit and blood.

Legolas can't believe it. He demands speaking to Thranduil, a lawyer, any authority. He's laughed at, ignored.

 

Just like that, the storm has moved on and he is no longer sheltered in its eye.

He retreats into a corner of the cell, pushing his knees up his chest and tries to breath. The first week he still believes Thranduil will come for him.

The possibility of nearing death makes him numb. He is stunned and in shock, like a child hit the first time by its father. Unbelieving, not able to grasp what just happened.

Then the executions start.

 

Despair holds them close to her breast and feeds them her foul milk. The desire to live is so strong in him, he fears it will kill him before the guillotine.

His last days he spends fighting for the small rest of his dignity as he defends himself against the other prisoners. Until his long, blond hair is smeared with dirt, his face smudged with dust, his clothes torn and his skin bruised. There is one truth he finds amidst all the misery. It's that in the end, none of them have any dignity left.

 

There is a whisper that goes through the cells. _Jean-Baptiste Carrier_ .

There will be no guillotine for them. The lore spreads itself as quick as a fever: There won't be a hearing in the tribunal. There will be no guillotine. They will be drowned.

They call it the _Republican Marriage_ when they tie a man and a woman naked together. They have created vessels with trap doors for bottoms. This is where they are put before the Loire will swallow them.

 

He cries silently at night. The salty tear drops burn on his skin. His hands grab his hair tightly. He swallows a breath and weeps. The picture of Thranduil's face calm and smooth behind his eyelids. In his head he is cold as marble, hard, never yielding and beautiful. He wants to tear him apart as much as he needs his touch upon his head, his gentle hand. All the things he should've said flood his mind, all the things he had wanted to do. Never has he seen Thranduil come undone. Never has he seen the sky above a different country. Never has he swam in the sea—and it's so close! He could've gone and done it. Never travelled to the old countries. Never had been loved the way he wants to be loved. He will never have children, never experience the bliss of a family of his own. So many things he thought he might have.

A part of him still hopes.

 

He does not remember much of it. But fear has carved its name into him like a knife. He remembers the cry of the birds. The smell of water and of rotten flesh. Sweat. The cold on his skin as they strip him naked. The cold of her skin, when they are tied together rapidly. He does not remember her face, only her eyes. Red-rimmed, tears veiling the brown around her iris. He remembers the sting of hope between his ribs, even as they are put into the bark. Even when the cold water swallows them.

Adrenaline rushes through his veins a last time as they struggle, fight with all they have. In vain.

 

 

**4**

 

It's night. Still the flapping of wings can be heard. Bird-cries like an echo along the river bank.

Thranduil has been searching for two weeks every day. And every night. In the prisons as far as he could bribe his way. Then the harbour.

Only a few pale lanterns spill their light on the pavement and the river. The smell of rotting flesh is overwhelming. Thranduil's stomach turns. He is glad he has not eaten since he saw Legolas the last time.

He is as fast as panther and as quiet. He moves from ship to ship, eyes narrow, gaze searching the anchors and the river bank. There are so many corpses in the river, when the ships pull up their anchors bodies are stacked upon them.

 

When he finds him, a silent cry forces itself around his lips.

Strands of long, wet hair sway in the cold night breeze. Lucid pearls hang from pallid, bluish flesh. Naked, twisted limbs. A raven picks at his ear.

Without thinking about it, Thranduil shoots forward. He grabs the raven's neck, his long fingers between the oily ink-black feathers. And breaks its neck.

 

He pulls him from the anchor. Aware of the guards he carries him as swiftly as he can into a narrow side street. Lays him upon the pavement. And weeps without a whisper, crouched over him.

 

That's what Legolas can see behind his lids, as he wakes.

“Am I dead?” he murmurs.

“Yes you are,” Thranduil replies.

 

 

Later, he can barely recall the time between autumn '93 and spring '94.

All he knows is that he knows in fact nothing. It takes time to adjust. Thranduil tells him if he is lucky, in a hundred years he might be able to see the sun again. Walk in daylight. For now, he cannot.

It takes time until he can face the hunger and the way to sate it. But it's not how he would've thought: it becomes something natural. Something he must do. And he knows fully well humans are no creatures of mercy. Or maybe, only he is not. And neither is he human anymore.

 

Thranduil leads his way in the gloom. He is not like a star, he is more like a black hole. He only needs to turn to the darkest patch of the night—Thranduil will be there.

Only now he begins to grasp the truth. Of how old Thranduil really is. And when he speaks of Dareios and Alexander and Octavian, he has not read about it. He has been there.

 

Legolas feels transformed, in so many ways.

There was a period of anger, when he tore down the furniture of an entire room and shouted at Thranduil, throwing a bottle of wine after him. There was a period of fear and mourning when he never left the ruins of his room.

 

“To create, first there must be destruction,” Thranduil tells him one night, shortly after he wakes up. He lunges at him then and Thranduil holds him down. Stare cold and wide like a morning over an ice-desert. He leaves marks on his wrists. Fear and adrenaline rush through his veins. Thranduil is terrible in his silence. No light in his bright blue eyes.

 

The next night he wanders to his room and apologises. Thranduil closes the door behind him. The next second he turns him around and pushes him against the wood. Legolas sucks in a breath.

There are urgent fingers, disrobing him quickly. Thranduil's hot breath over his naked back, then sinking lower until he can hear the muffled sound of Thranduil's knees hitting the floor.

A hot and wet tongue, Thranduil's hands spreading his cheeks.

Then he's inside, prodding, teasing, slowly inching deeper. Legolas wishes he could grab unto something, anything.

 

Then Thranduil adds a finger, something he has never done before. Heat floods over his body like a fever-wave. Carefully and slowly Thranduil works him open. Until he's moaning lowly, cursing, begging, for what he is not quite sure.

 

“To the bed,” Thranduil hisses against his neck, suddenly he feels empty. Thranduil's speed and movements still astonish him.

Without a word he complies. Silken sheets underneath him, Thranduil pushes him on his back, then he lets his long fingers glide over Legolas' legs up to his thighs.

With one swift motion he he between his legs, and the next second Thranduil has discarded his own clothing, too. Naked skin against naked skin.

 

With a furiously beating heart, Legolas slides up on his elbows and kisses him. Thranduil's mouth opens up for him. For a moments it's all lecherous wet lips and tongue. Until Thranduil presses him down into the sheets, a hand on his throat, his piercing gaze … Then he slickly thrusts inside. Not fully, but deep enough that Legolas' eyes roll back in his skull. There is Thranduil's hand around his aching cock and his lips upon his mouth.

 

He starts pushing his hips back after a while, wondering how Thranduil slicked himself, but not really caring. Bliss shivers over him like silver rain and he pulls him closer still. Thranduil's long champagne-coloured hair cascades down his shoulders, is in disarray now, clings to his sweaty skin. His moans so close to Legolas' ear, low and velvety.

Then suddenly Thranduil slides out of him and flips him around. Pulls him up, so he's on his elbows and knees and then sinks deep into him again. The angle is different now and Thranduil hits something deep inside him. It makes him moan loudly, then grinding his teeth.

Thranduil's finger dig into his hips as he pulls him closer, then slides out just to thrust in again.

 

Their rhythm gets faster with every time Thranduil hits that spot inside him that makes him see stars. Thranduil is crouched over him now, their hair a veil of sticky, pale gold. Hot, wet whispers behind his ear. Some of them so filthy they make him blush and his cock twitch.

Then Thranduil has his hand around his length again and measures his thrusts with the rhythm he strokes him. They are both close, he can feel it.

 

Suddenly Thranduil's fingers in his hair, pulling his head to the side roughly.

“Look at me,” he whispers in a dark voice. So he does while Thranduil's thrusts become harsher, hitting that spot inside him every time, deliciously, heavenly and his hand speeds up his rhythm. Legolas comes with a muffled cry. Thranduil follows shortly after him.

He sinks down into the cushions, exhausted, mind blown off into blissful spheres.

 

He sleeps in Thranduil's bed that night and wakes in his arms. He feels save and sound, his body aching slightly, but pleasantly so. It's one of these moments that he will yearn for later. A memory, impregnated like an iron-burn. It will wake in him the smell of the room, the feeling of the sheets, the way the shadows embrace Thranduil's body, his hair sprawled over his face. The faint street-lamp light that traced the curve of his neck. And he will feel so hurt and so alone when he thinks of it, even two-hundred years later.

 

 

It does not happen again so quickly, not in the passing year. And he thinks, maybe, just maybe this year is like the blink of an eye to Thranduil. Maybe for him it does not feel like eternity.

He wants to touch, but he dares not. Something has shifted between them, since Nantes. Thranduil calls him son and child every now and then. He calls him father. And he is his father, in a way he has never known. He teaches him about life, about surviving and he is a strict and merciless teacher.

After twenty years he leaves him the first time.

 

He returns five years later. Not a word of an apology nor an explanation. And Legolas starts slowly to understand, that this his how it's going to be. He feels utterly helpless at first, frightened.

He is a hungry beast in the shape of a young man. It takes time to realise. He can be like them. He knows the way to play the game. And he is free to be devouring or devoted. But there is one thing he can never be. Understood.

 

Only Thranduil does, though in extent, he does not comprehend the being that is Thranduil.

And how could he? He is not a century old. And Thranduil—tall and eternal. He was there when Tutankhamen and his sister-wife, still children, left the desert city Amarna and took on the long journey back to Thebes, after the death of Aknaton. He wandered with them, glancing back at the city and how the sun rose between the two mountains, all those three thousand years ago.

 

 

**5**

 

It's 2013 and he is racing over a highway.

The girl next to him is focused on the street, one hand on the wheel. She has long curly red hair and doesn't smile back at him. He really doesn't know why he has decided to come with her. But here he is. They have driven up from New York to Washington. Now they are on their way to the national park Shenandoah, 75 miles from Washington. When they arrive at the skyline drive, he turns off the music. It's cooler in the woods, moist and fresh.

 

He waits until nightfall before he leaves. He slips out of their room and into the night. He won't come back. The air is cool and sharp, there is no could in the dark-blue sky. The stars so bright and manifold, even after all those years, it takes his breath away. His unhappiness seems so petty and trivial compared to the beauty above. And yet, this is what he is: petty and trivial.

 

He had felt alone with that girl in the car, no matter how much they had talked. She was an unfortunate choice of companion. Sometimes he meets people who spark of passion and even love in him. For a while they tumble together, but he knows the one truth that won't allow more. That he has to endure while others perish.

And as hurtful as it is, he still would not change it. He does not crave death nor a mortal life. Ever since the Loire had swallowed him and spat him out at Thranduil's feet—he wants to live.

To learn and know and understand and experience this world.

It doesn't mean he is happy. And who could be all that time?

 

He wanders through the woods, quietly. Not as quiet as Thranduil would have. But still with the knowledge that all these trees are younger than him.

He still wishes he could show Thranduil. Show him everything.

He has not seen him since April in San Francisco 1906 and not talked to him since Byron's death in April 1824. And yet, dates matter not. What matters is, it's always spring. Vigorous and volatile.

 

 

He wanders through the forest. He talks to Thranduil in whispers and murmurs only the trees hear.

He speaks his name like a spell: with a shiver running down his spine, every time.

This is how it will always be.

**Author's Note:**

> Sources:
> 
> All facts from the execution scene in 1 are taken from Prof. Suzanne M. Dasan's lecture “Living The French Revolution”, part 19 – The King's Trial. For most of the story I used facts from part 25 – The Pressure Cooker of Politics and part 26 – Revolution in Crisis – Summer1793, recorded for The Teaching Company.
> 
> Some general time-line stuff from: Hans-Ulrich Thamer – Die Französische Revolution 
> 
> The stories of Skylla and Minos you can find in Ovid – Metamorphoses 
> 
> Also used both German and English wiki for Jean-Baptiste Carrier and what happens in Nantes.
> 
>  
> 
> And yes, I totally stole “No light in his bright blue eyes” from the Florence + the Machine song. There is a gorgeous vid to Thranduil and Thorin with it on yt, you should check it out.
> 
> x
> 
> If anyone cares, after I wrote my exam in French Rev class I continued doing research for this story. 
> 
> This is for all you lovely people who have commented on my previous two Thranduil/Legolas stories. I hope you enjoyed this one. Let me know. (How did the historical stuff come across?)  
> Also, Thorin was actually not planned in this story, he just kinda slipped in and created a mess.
> 
> Say 'Hi' to me on [tumblr](http://lieutenant-mairon.tumblr.com) if you like.  
> 


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